


Beer O'Clock

by argyle4eva



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time, and past time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer O'Clock

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been simmering in my brain since I saw the end of A2A, but it took lozenger8's fic, ["She Won't Forsake Me"](http://community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/2083597.html) to shake it loose. SPOILERS for A2A, obviously, though takes place in LoM continuity. Unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked. Apologies in advance. Also, hankie warning. _(For those who are following along in the "Being Sherlock"-verse, "Peace and Goodwill pt. II" is progressing, this is just a detour!)_

It's time, and past time.

Sam's been and done and become everything he needs, has helped countless more along their way with kindness and dignity, but he still lingers out of friendship. Gene can see it, because the borders of this psuedo-reality are fraying and stretching to the point where he remembers -- _everything._

These days, Sam can't open his locker door without it revealing stars. He'll swear, and slam it closed and open it again, and keep doing that until it shows the everyday outlines of hanging clothes and personal effects, but every time it's taking longer. Each street corner turns onto the void when Sam Tyler turns it, and his shadow glows with the secret lights of the firmament. Even his outline fades sometimes, as if he's becoming less -- or more -- real than what surrounds him.

It's the same for Annie; she and Sam have been the catalyst for each other's understanding -- but she's as fiercely loyal as Sam, in her own quiet way. She won't desert the ones she loves . . . but she has to.

One day, Gene locks eyes with Sam, in the middle of some argument about procedure and process, and both of them know it's the end. They stop fighting, stop everything, and fall silent. Everyone around them stills, a pin would drop like a clattering hammer, and eternity balances on the pivot point.

"We can't keep this up, Guv," Sam says, his narrow hazel eyes sad and resigned.

"You're bloody right we can't," Gene answers, reflex speaking the words, "Because I'm right and you know it."

Sam quirks the tiniest of half-smiles and the world starts moving again.

\--

Sam insists on the cover-up: the car in the water, the leather coat and all the bollocksy accompaniments. Gene starts to protest, to point out it isn't _necessary,_ but Sam stops him.

"It'll be important later," Sam explains, with the quiet strength of someone who's as good as gone Beyond, and for once Gene swallows his objections and trusts.

\--

They walk down the street slowly, taking their time in the late afternoon sunlight, the city gone to a dream of peace and order around them. When they turn the corner and see the Railway Arms where it shouldn't be (but incontrovertibly _is_ ) all three of them stop and exhale. Annie's the first to break the silence. Her head goes up, proud and poised, and she says, "Dunno about you two, but I'm ready for beer o'clock."

Gene snorts. "Go on, then. Cheeky bird." When Annie's smile at him wavers, he adds, more gently, "You're as good a copper as I've ever worked with. And with nicer tits than most."

Annie laughs then, even though her eyes are bright. "You aren't so bad yourself, Guv," she says, and actually reaches around to swat Gene's arse before winking at Sam and turning on her toes, heading with confident strides for the Arms' doors.

Sam laughs softly at Gene's side, but makes no move to follow.

"Well?" Gene asks. "Whater'y' waiting for? Christmas?"

"No," Sam says, smiling, shaking his head. "Not that. It's just . . ."

"Spit it out."

"I wanted you to know," Sam says, speaking faster, "We'll save a seat for you."

"Don't be daft. After this, you'll go . . . Home."

Sam shakes his head, and Gene knows that stubborn expression all too well.

"We'll save you a seat," Sam says, meeting Gene's eyes with a gaze that's full of starlight and determination. "No matter how long it takes, past Last Call and beyond, we'll hold the door and have a pint waiting."

Something breaks a little in Gene's heart then, though he'll never let it show. Sam will know anyway, the bastard.

It's not worth dissembling, so Gene takes a deep breath and lets it out with the snappy comeback unspoken. He takes another breath and says, simply, "Thanks."

Sam smiles in response, the broad, blinding smile that means he's got his way.

"I expect you'll need to have words with the management, though," Gene adds, by way of warning.

Sam's smile fades, and a hint of wildness creeps into his expression: the mad, illogical stubbornness that could make a saint tear his hair in frustration . . . and the Devil snarl in defeat. "I'm very good at arguing the rules. You of _all_ people know that." Another smile then, blinding as a sunrise. "And Annie's even worse than I am."

"On your own heads be it," Gene says, unable to resist smiling back. "Now _go_ , Dorothy, before you lose your seat, never mind mine."

"Don't worry," Sam says, and claps Gene on the shoulder. "I'm ready for my time at the pub. Take care of Chris and Ray and all the others."

"As if I'd do anything else."

"As if." Sam's laughing now, and that's right, he should be happy when he leaves. "See you 'round."

"See ya," Gene says, and watches Sam's straight, confident shoulders until he passes through the doors . . . though Gene looks away at the last second and only hears the latch click closed, rather than watching the Arms' windows flare with light and then fade.

He turns and walks away, through the last of sunset's gold, feeling bits and chunks of memory slipping away with every step, keeping the world real so he can play his part as he needs.

At the very last, there's the fleeting, regretful sense that he probably could have used a drink, since the _next_ case is likely to make dealing with Sam look like a walk in the park . . . but then it's gone, and Sam is dead and the wheel turns again on the long road till the End.

But somewhere it is, and was, and always will be, Beer O'Clock.

\--

 _. . . We two have paddled in the stream,  
from morning sun till dine;  
But seas between us broad have roared  
since auld lang syne._

 _And there’s a hand my trusty friend!  
And give us a hand o’ thine!  
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,  
for auld lang syne._


End file.
